“It still bothers me,” said Clara. “How did Connie get to be Bannon’s stand-in? I think she needed help. She needed to know someone who could pull strings. Her mother said something”—Clara cast her mind back to that afternoon in Mrs. Milligan’s kitchen—“about Connie having a brush with Hollywood years earlier.”
“The paper said she grew up in San Bernardino?” said Gil, sounding skeptical. “Not very glamorous.”
“No, in Palm Springs.”
“What was she doing in Palm Springs—vacation?”
Clara shook her head. “No. Secretarial work, before the war.” She pondered for a minute, trying to remember what Mrs. Milligan had said exactly. “The ugly house.” And in answer to Gil’s confused look, she elaborated. “Mrs. Milligan said Connie’s employer’s house was modern—all glass and steel, and Connie thought it was ugly.”
“What guy’s house?” said Gil.
“The rich guy she worked for—over Christmas, before the war,” said Clara. “I wonder if we could figure out who he was. What if he had ties to Hollywood? What if—” She batted her hand in the air, dismissing the idea. “It’s a stretch. Forget it.” Clara shook her head. “That was years ago. We’d have to go there to find the house, track down the owner.”
“Road trip to Palm Springs?” said Gil.
She looked at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’d do that?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got no plans this weekend.”
They walked back to the parking lot. Headlights washed over them as they got into the car.
“Hey, what was the other thing you wanted to tell me?” asked Clara. “You said there were two things.”
Gil drove off, nice and slow, his eyes fixed to the rearview mirror. “There’s a black Chrysler been following us ever since we left the studio. I noticed him last night as well, out front of my apartment building—I think it was the same car.”
Clara glanced at the wing mirror. “It’s a common enough car,” she said, shifting uneasily in her seat. The detectives drove a Chrysler—was this a cop car?
“This one has a wonky left headlight—it’s at an angle,” said Gil. Clara looked again and saw, right enough, that the car’s lights cast an uneven light, one headlight aimed a little higher than the other.
“Could be a coincidence?” said Clara.
“It’s possible.” He didn’t sound convinced.
They took the winding road through the park smoothly. When they reached the houses on Vermont Avenue, Gil abruptly pulled into a driveway. He switched off the headlamps and placed a hand on Clara’s arm, a signal for her to keep still. His eyes were fixed on the rearview mirror. Warm light spilled from windows of the mock Tudor home; it caught the side of Gil’s face, and he was cast in bronze, like a mask. Clara held her breath. In the side mirror, a flash of headlights and the Chrysler flew past them. She felt Gil’s hand relax, but he kept it resting on her arm. They waited a minute or two, then he backed out of the driveway and they joined the line of taillights on Vermont Avenue.
Chapter Twenty-Six
No Room in Hollywood
THAT NIGHT, HER MIND buzzing with the murder case and unable to sleep, Clara picked up Connie’s Saturday Evening Post and opened it to page 11. She had been so preoccupied with her own memories of meeting Leni Riefenstahl that she hadn’t actually read the whole article. “Nazi Pin-Up Girl” was written by a Hollywood screenwriter and novelist—Budd Schulberg—who had worked with the US military in Germany after the war. Their mission had been to find motion pictures to use as evidence against Nazi war criminals at Nuremberg. Leni Riefenstahl’s documentaries were at the top of their list. It was fitting because, as it turned out, Schulberg had helped organize the Hollywood boycott against Leni back in 1938.
As with most feature articles, the story began on the opening pages, but the later sections were printed in the back of the magazine. When Clara turned to page 36 to read the rest of the article, she noticed short, blond hairs caught in the fold. A shiver ran down her back. The next section was on page 39, and the article concluded on page 41. Again more blond hairs in the fold. Connie was reading this article. Clara was certain of it.
Carefully she checked other pages at random—the article on vets learning to walk, a short story, a PanAm advertisement—no blond hairs. She flipped back to the article. She could picture it like close-ups projected on a movie screen: Rosa’s scissors trimming the ends of Connie’s hair, Connie buried in the magazine, riveted by “Nazi Pin-Up Girl.” The fine hairs falling onto the magazine. Connie had probably brushed them aside, but some had been left behind. Clara had assumed that coming across the article about Leni had been random, a ricochet from her own past, nothing to do with Connie, but now the magazine was saturated with meaning. Clara could feel a flutter in her chest as she put the pieces together. It was no coincidence—Connie had taken the magazine for a reason.
Clara reread the article from beginning to end, trying to make a connection. Why would Connie Milligan have been drawn to reading about the Nazi film queen? Had her husband served with Budd Schulberg’s unit in Germany, looking for Nazi propaganda? No, Jim had died in France in ’44 during the D-Day invasion. Perhaps Connie knew Schulberg, the writer? Was there even a connection to find? Or had Connie simply been diverted by a news article and taken the magazine with her to read on the streetcar?
It was late. Clara’s parents were asleep. She tiptoed down the hall to her father’s study and rifled through his box of old newspapers to read more about Leni Riefenstahl’s visit to California. She placed his desk lamp on the hall floor and spread all the newspapers along the hallway. Anything that mentioned Leni Riefenstahl, she cut out.
Widening her search from Leni’s arrival on the Europa in November to January 1939, Clara discovered that the film director’s two-month visit had generated a huge amount of column inches and gossip—from the political to the salacious, as well as the fawning and trivial. leni says climate is fantastic and german actress here on vacation, not location.
“Since many years I have wanted to visit in California,” she said in explaining her presence here. “This is a beautiful place and I’m taking what you call a holiday, yes?” Following the premieres of her Olympic film in European capitals, the German actress came to America—not, as she explained, in the interest of the picture or of her career. And so, the red-haired woman with the exotic charm and expressive hands is resting in Beverly Hills after a tour of premieres of her picture, in which she was presented to rulers and the world’s great. Her picture, “It has broken records everywhere. I hope Americans can see the film.”
In the papers Leni denied her trip to Hollywood was connected to her career, and yet that is precisely what Max had told Clara—she was trying to sell Olympia. Max was right about her visit being controversial, coming right on the heels of Kristallnacht—the Night of Broken Glass, when across Germany the windows of Jewish-owned businesses were smashed; buildings and synagogues destroyed; thousands of Jews arrested and scores killed. News of the riots sent shock waves around the world.
It was no wonder then, that Riefenstahl had been shunned and denied access to the studios. There was a vigorous campaign against her thanks to the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League. The LA Times noted the league’s full-page ads in Variety magazine: No room in Hollywood for Leni Riefenstahl. Even gossip columnist Hedda Hopper got drawn into the slugging match, but she was on the other side of the fence. Leni’s only here to sell her picture, Hopper wrote, which confirmed what Max had said. And a few weeks later, I met her the other day and she’s perfectly charming.
Clara surveyed all the newspapers scattered across the floor and remembered some throwaway comment Detective Ireland had made in the screening room—about Connie going to the library on the weekends. He’d been skeptical, but what if she’d been doing exactly what Clara was doing at this very moment: reading up on R
iefenstahl, trying to see the whole picture.
It was after midnight now, and Clara’s eyes were twitching from the fine print. She was skimming another article and fighting a yawn, when suddenly the words jolted her awake. After being railroaded out of Hollywood by the Anti-Nazi League, Leni had spent time traveling in California. leni riefenstahl says goodbye. “Now I go soon to Europe,” she declared, “after having visited San Francisco, Yosemite, and Palm Springs.”
Palm Springs. The name leapt off the page. Quickly Clara calculated the timeline. There had been an official farewell reception for Leni in Los Angeles, given by the German consul, Dr. Georg Gyssling, on January 6. That meant Riefenstahl’s trip to Palm Springs would have been before that—sometime in December 1938, with her leaving in the first few days of January at the latest. Connie Milligan had spent Christmas in Palm Springs working over the holiday—the two women had been there at the same time. The link between Leni Riefenstahl and Connie Milligan was nearly invisible, as fine as gossamer—a few strands of pale blond hair in the folds of a magazine—but Clara had found the connection.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Palm Springs
THE DRIVE TO PALM Springs was hot and dusty. Despite there being a foot-long rip in the convertible’s soft top, Gil had put it up, and once on the highway the shreds of fabric were buffeted by the wind, flapping like the sails of a boat. Clara looked across at him, his hands loosely on the wheel, his left arm resting on the rolled-down window, and she felt that queasy surging sensation, like she was on a boat lurching through chop—equal parts nerves and excitement. As they picked up speed, the rip in the roof would whistle like the wind before a storm hits.
“Run it by me again,” said Gil. He rolled up his window to cut the noise.
“Connie did some secretarial work in Palm Springs for a few months in winter 1938—different temp jobs, a realtor’s office, and a car company,” said Clara. “She was fresh out of typing school.”
“And the Nazi filmmaker was in Palm Springs as well?” said Gil.
“I think so.” Clara nodded.
“Even if they were there at the same time, would they have crossed paths? Would Connie even know who the German woman was?”
“I don’t know, but she read that article ‘Nazi Pin-Up Girl’ a couple of weeks before the murder,” said Clara.
“Could it be a coincidence?”
“Maybe. But Connie took the magazine from the salon; she hung on to it.”
“Anything else?” asked Gil.
“At the studio Max, the projectionist, acted cagey when I brought up Riefenstahl’s name. It could be nothing. I mean, this whole trip could be a wild goose chase. But still, I want to find out who Connie worked for—maybe there’s something in it.”
Gil tapped the odometer. “That’s a lot of mileage for a hunch, Miss Berg.”
“I’ll give you gas money,” she said, laughing.
He smiled. “I’ll settle for lunch.”
This reminded Clara of the lie she had told her parents on the way out the door that morning, that she was having a cookout on the beach with the girls from accounting. The ribbon of asphalt stretched out ahead of them, the landscape becoming drier and scrubbier the farther east they drove. The road ahead felt like a dare, some kind of gamble where Clara didn’t know the odds.
* * *
—
They stopped for gas a few miles outside Palm Springs, and Clara went to the ladies’ to freshen up. When she returned to the car, Gil had cleaned the windshield and taken the top down. He wore sunglasses, and in the bright sun the crisp white of his short-sleeved shirt made his arms look even more tan. After Clara got into the car, she pulled a pair of shades from her purse and tied a scarf around her hair. Gil started the engine. “Ready?” he asked. Clara nodded, feeling the tug of desire and danger, her senses on fire. As they pulled out of the gas station, it struck her that they were both in disguise and that it felt vaguely criminal—something out of Bonnie and Clyde, a pair of bank robbers about to stage a heist.
About an hour later, Clara and Gil were side by side at a long wooden table in the reading room of the Palm Springs library, an array of newspapers and magazines spread out before them. The warm light, the cool tile underfoot, the musty comforting smell of books, and the companionable silence—it was a balm compared to the dusty highway. The only sounds were the occasional footsteps of the diligent librarian who was helping them; the shuffling of papers; and the persistent coughs from other patrons, mostly old folks in armchairs. So much for Bonnie and Clyde.
Clara was leafing through a magazine on modern architecture. Gil was elbow deep in the Palm Springs social calendar of 1938. Winter was high season, when the Hollywood elite would descend, escaping the LA winter (such as it was) for the warmth of the desert.
“You find anything?” asked Clara.
“Tennis matches and rounds of golf, ribbon cuttings, and tiki parties,” said Gil. “The hot place in town is the Racquet Club—where the rich and famous play in the desert.”
“No sign of Fräulein Riefenstahl, I guess?” asked Clara.
“Not yet. Maybe she wanted to keep a low profile after being run out of LA.”
A click of heels, and the librarian returned with a book for Clara. “There are a couple of examples of modern architecture in this book,” she said, opening it to the index. “Both built before 1938.” She thumbed through the pages until she landed on a photograph of a modest glass-and-steel-frame construction. “The Miller House by Richard Neutra. It’s in town, in the flats. And over the page here”—she flipped the page—“Desert House, up in the foothills, built in 1937. It’s larger but still in the International style.”
Clara took the book and studied both pictures. “Who’s Mr. Miller?”
“That would be Grace Miller,” said the librarian.
That ruled out the Miller House. Clara turned the page. “And the owner of the Desert House?” she asked.
The librarian skimmed a finger over the article. “The architect built it for himself.” She shook her head. “But this book is out of date. I heard that the chap got into money problems—a rich businessman bought it. A car man—Western Auto, I believe.”
Gil nudged Clara. “Connie’s mom said she had temped for a car company, right?”
Clara nodded. “I think this is the one we’re looking for.”
“Here’s the address,” said the librarian. “On Los Robles Drive, in the foothills, off Rose.” She jotted the address on a piece of scrap paper.
“Thanks for your help,” said Clara. The librarian nodded and left them to it.
Gil stretched. “Let’s take a break. I’m starving.”
After a lunch of roast chicken and lukewarm vegetables, they bought a map of Palm Springs and picked up a brochure for an architecture tour in town. Clara studied the pamphlet as they drove away from the main drag and up to Los Robles Drive.
The Desert House was low and unassuming, nestled in the foothills, with the mountains towering in the distance. A few palm trees stretched overhead like sentinels, and a neat lawn in front looked artificial and too lush for the climate.
They got out of the car. “Doesn’t look like anyone is home,” said Gil as they approached the front gate. There wasn’t a car in the driveway, but there was a double garage. “What do you have planned—a bit of breaking and entering?”
“Just a bit of acting.” She smiled at him.
They walked up the smooth drive to the front door, and Clara rang the bell.
As they waited, Gil surveyed the house. “I wonder how much dough it costs, a pad like this?”
“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice. She opened the door, and a small dog came running up to them, fluffy and yapping. “Snowball, that’s enough.”
“Oh, good afternoon. Sorry to bother you,” said Clara. “We were hoping to lo
ok at the house.” She fanned herself with the architectural pamphlet. “We’re on a tour of modern architecture.”
Gil bent down and petted the dog. “We just saw the Miller House,” he lied.
“And your front gate was open,” Clara chimed in. “It’s a little cheeky.” She gave the woman her best wholesome smile.
“Is this your house, ma’am?” asked Gil. “A wonderful example of the International style.” Clara caught his eye, and he smirked at her.
The woman laughed, genuinely tickled at the thought. “No, silly—I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. Irvine. Come in, come in,” she said. “Have a peek.” Thoroughly taken with them, Mrs. Irvine ushered them into the house. The little dog circled them, excited by the company.
Inside, it was vast and cool. They stood in the massive open living room. All the furniture was teak wood and cream upholstery. A spacious dining area connected to an airy kitchen—everything was open. The far wall was all glass, revealing a large swimming pool outside. It was very modern and smooth and flowing, to Clara’s eye, who was used to the heavy European furniture and the cramped space of her parents’ Spanish-style bungalow.
“Don’t get many visitors this time of year—too hot,” said Mrs. Irvine.
“How often is the owner here?” asked Clara.
“Hardly ever these days. The old man has become frail. Before the war the house was always busy. We’ve had politicians, a former president, and business folk—even Henry Ford once. Mr. Pearce was in the car business.”
“Pearce?” said Clara sharply. She shot a glance at Gil.
The housekeeper nodded emphatically. “Kenneth Pearce, CEO of Western Auto.”
Clara’s heart rate recovered and Mrs. Irvine beckoned them to the back patio. “Come and have a look at the pool,” she said, sliding open the glass doors. The little dog raced ahead. They stepped outside and into a blast of heat like a hair dryer in the face. “It’s a scorcher today, isn’t it?” The sun reflected off the turquoise pool, and it was almost too bright to look at.
The Silver Blonde Page 17